


Morituri Nolumus Mori

by fangsty



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: (mostly), Angst, Canon Compliant, Dialogue Heavy, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Joe is an ally and a good bro you can't change my mind, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad Ending, Semi Graphic Descriptions of Gore, Survivor Guilt, Tom Blake/William Schofield (Implied), William Schofield Dies, World War I, medical drama, really it's just a couple of long conversations stringed together with my headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22663048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangsty/pseuds/fangsty
Summary: Nothing in this world comes without consequences.
Relationships: Joseph Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake & William Schofield
Comments: 19
Kudos: 59





	1. I: Denouement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"We who are about to die don't want to."_ \- Sir Terry Prachett 
> 
> General disclaimer that while I did as much (easy to find) research as I could, there will probably be some historical and medical inaccuracies. Sorry if there's anything glaringly wrong or anachronistic.
> 
> ps. gratz to 1917 and its 3 oscars. they were well deserved baby!

Shock, exhaustion, sorrow, relief — every pent up emotion and feeling from the last twenty four hours weighed down on Corporal William Schofield as he staggered towards to the lone tree. But when he sat down and leaned upon the trunk, and the sun rose over the hill, he felt calm. A strong urge compelled him to take out and study the two photographs that reminded him of home. 

One of his wife, one of his children. His fingers stroked over their faces, then the writing on the back that said _come back to us_.

He had nearly broken that promise. 

He thought about how those who searched his dead body would find it on his person and think about the sad irony of such an unrealistic request. 

A breeze rustled the branches above. Leaves drifted off and floated beyond him. Will couldn’t fight off the fatigue anymore and his head dropped against the bark. After tucking the pictures safely inside the tobacco tin, his eyelids fell shut. 

He blinked, or he might as well have because for a moment it seemed no time had passed when he was shaken awake by a Devons soldier. The twilight sky proved otherwise. 

“Hey,” said the soldier, “get up. Lieutenant Blake wanted me to—“

A deep groan cut him off. Will’s injury, the one on his hand, throbbed painfully under the filthy soaked bandage. What used to be a dull ache was intensely more painful than ever. The whole of him was one giant bruise. Sweat coated his palms and underarms, yet he was shivering as if it was below freezing. 

“Mate? You okay?” He opened his mouth, tried to respond, but he could only pant laboriously. On shaky knees he attempted to stand but only got up on one leg before he tumbled back onto the ground. “Oi! Mate?” Through Will’s blurred and tilted vision, he saw the soldier twist towards the main camp. “Stretcher bearers! Someone needs help!” His booming voice carried across the lawn. 

Several men rushed out of a tent with a stretcher. The soldier helped roll Will onto the beige canvas. Stars were just beginning to poke out of the darkening sky. The twinkling lights left behind small streaks as his vision ebbed back and forth. The injured arm was folded onto his chest, but the other rolled off the side. His fingertips grazed the damp grass petals as they hurried him to the medical tent.

Once inside, they heaved him onto an empty bed and left immediately, but the Devons soldier stayed behind. The earlier chaos had calmed down since the first wave of attack this morning. It wasn’t so busy like before. 

A doctor in bloodied white scrubs with wide blue eyes rushed over to him immediately when called. “What is it, Sergeant O’Reilly?” 

“He’s very warm, sir. Couldn’t walk at all. He needs looking at.” O’Reilly helpfully pointed out his bandaged hand and bloody head. 

The doctor tugged at his lids to inspect his watery, bloodshot eyes. He winced when the back of his head was touched, “Hm, he’s got a bad fever. Lost a lot of blood from the head, but it doesn’t look too bad. It’ll just need to be cleaned and dressed.” Lastly, he addressed Will’s bloody, injured hand. 

“Alright then, let’s see it, shall we?” Using a pair of sharp scissors, the doctor snipped the bandage open and opened it delicately. At the final unravel of the bloody gauze Will recoiled, feeling sick at the sight. It looked _awful_ to him, he couldn’t describe it any other way. It certainly hadn’t healed normally. The whole area was a medley of sick colors. Crusted dried brown blood — whatever hadn’t washed away in the river — stained his palm. The gash itself was open, only part of it had scabbed over, with most of it exposed to the air, and the area around it was swollen a deep red. It leaked a cloudy yellowish pus that smelled foul. 

“My god, man! Why didn’t you get this looked at earlier!?” He looked at Will with equal parts concern and bewilderment. Will wasn’t even sure if he could speak right now. There was no way he could explain what he went through. 

“Nevermind. Better late than never. You,” the doctor pointed a finger at O’Reilly, “Get Doctor Cutter. Tell him to bring morphine and fluids then go back to your post. Quick!” O’Reilly saluted and hurried to follow his orders. 

Medical supplies clinked against each other as they were gathered from a nearby cabinet. Between the pain and the fever, Will struggled to focus on anything. The shock of seeing his wound had made him dizzy. One thing that stood out to him was how young the doctor looked. If Will had to take a gander, he would guess the man was only about a decade older than himself. His straight jet black hair greyed only at the temples and his face was almost free of wrinkles. “What’s your name, corporal?” he asked, back turned to Will. “You’re not one of ours. Can you speak?” 

His mouth was dry and tongue leaden, but he swallowed and rasped, “...William Schofield. I was sent from the 8th to deliver a message.”

“I’m Doctor John Pierce, head surgeon of the Devons.” He spun around with a bottle of clear liquid and several towels. “Now, son. I’m going to disinfect you first. Grit your teeth, this will hurt.”

A soft pop sounded from the bottle cap as it was opened new. Doctor Pierce dabbed it onto the towel until it was evenly coated. Anticipation made him tense up, his other hand fisting the bed sheets tight. 

One light press of the towel against his throbbing hand and it burned like fire. Will hissed through gritted teeth like the doctor suggested. Two pains overlapped one another. The pain was starting to overwhelm him. He was trembling so hard the bed frame rattled. It was done again for the head wound, however that one didn’t hurt too much by comparison. 

Another towel was dipped into a bowl of water, and the doctor gently scrubbed off as much of the leftover dried blood and pus as he could. Gentle as he was, it felt akin to sandpaper on his tender skin. 

White dots danced in Will’s peripheral. The doctor must’ve said something, his lips moved, but Will couldn’t hear it. He wanted to ask him to repeat what he said, but he blacked out before he could try. 

* * *

“...ofield.”

Someone was calling him. Who was that? In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw... _Tom?_

“William Schofield.” The voice again. 

He blinked. 

No, not Tom. Rather, his brother Joseph Blake was sitting on a chair at his bedside. Dark bags that weren’t there yesterday morning were under his eyes, but he otherwise looked and dressed the same. With an aura of dignity and authority, it really struck Will how disparate he and Tom were.

“How are you feeling?” His brows furrowed with what appeared to be genuine sympathy. 

“Like shit,” Will said dryly, and Lt. Blake snorted, but he seemed relieved that Will was well enough to crack a joke. “Can I have…?”

“Water? Yes, here.” The lieutenant helped Will sit up and sip from a flask. 

“Um. Thank you.” Will didn’t know what else to say. Situations like this really didn’t call for small talk. He was a little surprised that the elder Blake would come visit him personally so fast, but O’Reilly _did_ mention that he was sent by him. 

“The doctor’ll be here soon.” 

Will nodded and rubbed the gunk out of his eyes. His left arm, and especially his left hand, was still paining him, but it was nearly bearable. Sometime during the night, he was changed out of his soiled uniform and into cotton pajamas. Someone must’ve given him a bath too because he was no longer caked in dirt and sweat. All of his smaller injuries were cleaned and bandaged. He nearly panicked about the loss of his personal effects — particularly the pictures — being gone, but relaxed when he spotted the familiar tin next to his pillow. 

As if Lt. Blake had summoned him, Doctor Pierce practically materialized, in a clean coat this time, within a couple minutes. With him was another doctor with brown hair and kind eyes. “This is Doctor Charles Cutter,” he introduced, “He’ll be helping you when I’m not around.” Doctor Cutter greeted him briefly before stepping back to observe.

“I’m going to have a look at your hand now, okay?” He slowly unwrapped the gauze and frowned slightly. A spike of anxiety went through Will at his reaction. 

“What is it? Is it bad?”

“It’s not good. No distinct signs of improvement, unfortunately, but it’s too early to tell either.” He laid a cool hand on Will’s forehead. “Your fever has gone down to some degree but it’s still too high.” 

“Can I take him for a walk?” Lt. Blake inquired on the opposite side of the bed. The wording of the question made Will feel a bit like a dog, but he could tell it was an excuse to have a private conversation with him. 

“Not yet, Blake. He needs food and more bedrest.” He titled his head down at Will, “We’ll give you more fluids and a steady dose of morphine. Please, get some sleep.” The white coat flowed behind him as he went to examine the other patients in the tent.

When he looked back at Lt. Blake, his disappointment showed for a second before he returned to a more neutral expression. “I’m going to get you breakfast. I’ll be right back.”

Breakfast was simple. Orange juice, scrambled eggs, sausage, and toast, but it had fresh jam and soft butter, and it tasted like the best food Will had in forever. Good, hell, even just the decent army rations tended to go to the officers, so he reckoned Lt. Blake may have snagged it for him specially. 

They didn’t talk much while he ate. Ambient sounds from the tent filled the quiet from their lack of conversation. A few of the other soldiers were talking and laughing together. Some were crying softly or moaning in pain. Doctors and orderlies were bustling around. 

“Thank you, sir.” It took almost an hour to finish because nausea would kick in if he ate too fast, but he had savored every bite, and he was grateful. Fresh food made him feel human again.

“You’re welcome, Schofield.” Lt. Blake took the tray of his empty glass plates, “The doctor said to rest, so rest. I’ll come back again later.” 

Will watched him exit the tent and appreciated that Joseph Blake was not above doing anything that might be considered “below his station”. 

Then he noticed he had neighbors on either side. One on his right that had half his face bandaged and a stump of a leg covered in layers of gauze at his knee. Like it was Sunday afternoon tea time, the man was casually reading a newspaper and giggled every few seconds at whatever he read. When he saw Will staring, he smiled at him and waved a little hello. Something about it unsettled Will, but he couldn’t help but admire the man’s resilience. The other one on his left stared unblinking into the ceiling. Arms limp at his sides, eyes unfocused, he looked mentally gone. They came up with a new term for it, called it “shell shock” after the artillery shells that bombarded them day after day. Will had seen that look many times on many men before — probably had the same look on his own face at some point — and felt a stab of pity for him. 

A yawn escaped his lips. Continuous lethargy from his fever and the drugs persisted in him, and food that made him feel even sleepier, so he submerged himself into the bed and fell asleep immediately. 

When he woke up, he was disoriented, much like the day before. He didn’t know what time it was, but there was a lot less sunlight filtering through the tent than in the morning. At his bedside, Lieutenant Blake was present again. 

“Hey, doc! He’s awake!” he gestured across the tent to Doctor Pierce, who was doing paperwork at a small desk. “Can I take a walk with him now?”

Will ran a hand through his greasy hair and stretched, except for his left hand. “What time is it?” he asked. 

“It’s almost six, nearly dinner time.” 

The doctor had made it over and immediately rechecked his temperature. “No changes.”

“But can he come out for a bit? Please?” Lt. Blake begged. “He needs some air.”

Doctor Pierce squinted his eyes and hummed. “Okay, alright. Only for an hour.” A very sharp needle poked into his arm and the syringe was emptied. “It’s morphine. Careful with that hand. Now off you go.”

Lt. Blake beamed at him. One arm looped around Will’s back, and he put his own arm across Lt. Blake’s broad shoulders. They walked together outside, rather slowly due to Will’s condition. It was the same beautiful sight he saw when he met Joseph Blake except the sun was setting rather than rising. The late afternoon sun turned the sky a rich gold and casted long shadows. 

Walking was not so bad. Even with a useless left arm. The morphine did its job effectively, but the fever greatly reduced his energy. 

Lt. Blake led him away from the trenches and tents. Not towards where he initially went, under that lone tree in a patch of field, but back the other way towards the Croisilles woods where he first came across the Devons. It was much quieter there away from the buzzing of soldiers. Just the occasional sound of wildlife chittering and moving through the bushes. 

There was a sense of tranquility in nature. Without the presence of exploding shells, or of the ringing of guns, or the doldrums of the trenches, and now the sterile and cold hospital, he could almost forget the ache in his hand and how sick and miserable he was. _Almost._ Staring out into the mass of trees, Will’s mind blanked. A few comfortable moments of silence passed. 

It was the lieutenant that broke the ice first, bringing him out of his stupor, “What happened with your hand?”

“Barbed wire,” Will grimaced at the memory. “In no man’s land. It was just after we started. ”

“Barbed wire? That’s nasty business.” He couldn’t agree more. He never forgot how much the sight of men ensnared in it made his stomach curdle. 

“It was, yeah. So much happened that I forgot about it.” After Tom had passed he’s not sure he acknowledged it once. Nowhere to stop to think about himself. Not much to think about besides surviving, delivering the message. He can think of only one instance where he had solace and the furthest thing from his mind was an old injury.

Another minute lapsed, the air heavier between them. 

Then Joe questioned him outright, “Schofield. I want to ask you. Can you tell me what happened to my brother? How _it_ happened?” His eyes silently pleaded. Will sighed. He figured this was coming. No doubt it would be the burning question on Joe’s mind once the reality of his brother’s death set in. 

“Lieutenant…” he hesitated. He didn't know if he was ready to talk about it, but part of him also strongly believed he owed it to Tom’s brother. Almost certainly, Joseph Blake knew the horrors of war, seen it up close, probably even more than Will himself — but this was about his own brother. This was different. 

“Please, call me Joe.” No, Will decided, the fact that it _was_ different made it all the more reason to tell him. No one deserved to know more than him. 

“Joe, is it alright if I start from the beginning? And call me Will.”

For the next fifteen minutes Will talked uninterrupted. He explained the purpose of the mission, that Tom was chosen for the assignment because of his relationship to Joe, and how Tom picked him having no idea what they were getting into. Joe was hanging onto his every word as he described their agonizing journey through no man’s land, the German trench with the tripwire bomb where Tom saved his life, and the area beyond. 

Will paused. He needed to gear himself up for what came next. 

“We watched the dog fight from the barn. The plane came crashing right in front of us.” Will internally scoffed at the thought that it could’ve killed the both of them right there, but he continued. “The pilot inside was alive. We dragged him out to so he didn’t burn to death. He was an enemy German fighter,” Will’s gaze met Joe, “and he was the one who killed Tom.”

Grief and a righteous fury flashed across Joe’s face, but he didn’t speak, he simply nodded for him to keep going. 

“Tom wanted to help him, but I wanted to put him out of his misery. He convinced me to get water for him. I had turned my back for a few seconds, and…” his voice broke, “it was too fucking late. I shot the bastard dead, but he had already stabbed Tom too deep.” Tears threatened at the corner of his eyes. It was the first time he had spoken about it since it happened. 

Guilt within him, guilt he always felt under the surface but never had time for it to register, amplified tenfold. He could’ve bloody saved Tom if only he’d followed his instincts. The man in front of him wouldn’t be short a brother if he did. “I… I made a mistake, Joe. I should’ve shot that German the moment I saw him. I’d understand if you blamed me. I would blame me too.“ The blunt nails of his unhurt hand dug into the palm. He wondered if deep down, Joe wished that he died in Tom’s place. 

Joe’s eyes, the same shade of blue as his brother, stared at him with an expression he couldn’t discern. Seconds tick by. Only the sound of wind blows. Then Joe vigorously shook his head and placed a hand on his shoulder, “No, Will, don’t. I don’t blame you. Don’t blame yourself either. I’ve seen guilt consume men. Most of anything that happens on the battlefield, _in war_ , is out of our control.” 

“But…” _Was he just being kind?_

“No!” The grip on his shoulder tightened almost painfully, “I _will not_ let you feel responsible for his death. No one is to blame but the man who killed Tom, _you_ especially!” his voice echoed in the wide expanse of the forest and several birds took flight near them. Will was taken aback at how willingly Joe forgave him. Perhaps he and Tom were more alike than he thought. Joe sighed and closed his eyes while he took a deep breath. They opened back up to look at Will with as much conviction as he could impart.

“I want you to remember that you completed this foolhardy mission. If you hadn’t made it, a lot more of my men’s lives would’ve been lost. Too many have been lost already.” The hand on his shoulder slackened, then Joe drew back to his original position. Maybe he was right. It wasn’t productive to think like that and wallow in guilt and self pity, but Will was not sure he would ever be able to forgive himself. 

Joe’s finger absentmindedly traced a pattern into the dirt. “Can you...” he looked away, past Will to his right, “can you tell me what his last moments were like?”

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Will began, “Tom was in shock.” _The sight of Tom’s own blood, the way his expression changed from shock to despair, he had never looked so young._

“I tried to stay calm for him.” _They were the same rank, but he was the senior. He was obliged to take charge._

“I thought—I wanted to get him to an aid station, but I couldn’t.” _Or maybe that’s what he told himself. Maybe he had to stay calm for his own sake too. Pretend there was hope so he didn’t breakdown._

“He was in too much pain to move and too heavy for me to carry. Even if I could, we wouldn’t have made it in time.” _He tried. He tried so hard. Tom saved him. He should’ve saved Tom. But there was nothing he could do._

“He… he was scared.” _Will was terrified. He was about to lose his best friend. Someone he loved. He would be alone for the rest of his journey, maybe the rest of the war._

“He lost so much blood, and he seemed to forget what happened. Then he asked me if he was dying.” _Tom would have wanted honesty from him. It would’ve been cruel to lie._

“And…?”

“And I told him truthfully, yes.” _Tom, well, he had no choice but to accept it. Will thought he might've had a harder time of it than Tom._

“Just before h-before he passed, he had a moment of clarity. He made me promise to finish our mission and reminded me where to go. Then he asked me to write to his— _your_ —mother. I helped him take out the photo of all of you that he always keeps on him. He held it as he died.” _Most men don’t get the chance to have a last look, their deaths were swift and callous. A small mercy._

“I was with him until he passed. Then I dragged him closer to the water, but I didn’t have time to bury him.” _He barely had time to mourn._

It took a moment for him to realize his face was wet with tears, and he hastily wiped them off. 

Joe had not cried like him, but he was deeply affected. He kept direct eye contact with him when he said, “Will. Thank you for taking care of my brother.”

“Yeah, I’d say he took care of me too.”

“Really? You would say that about him?” Joe was intrigued.

“Yes, really. Before he and I were in the same unit, I was,” he searched for the right words, “not all there. Didn’t have any friends. I hadn’t since…” he trailed off. 

“I didn’t understand how much Tom meant to me until he died. Isn’t that awful of me?” It hurt to admit, but it was the truth. Will didn’t realize that he felt anything more than friendship for Tom until the very end. He was kept at arm's length at times. 

He was only ‘Blake’ in Will’s mind until the knife went in. 

“Sometimes you don’t know what you’ve lost until it’s too late,” said Joe. He had a pensive expression that suggested he experienced something similar. Will would give anything to have another chance, even just to let Tom know that he cared for him. 

Will had nearly curled into himself, chin on his knees and arms around his legs. It was getting dark. The sun had nearly set. It dyed the sky a deep red.

“It’s late,” sighed Joe. “Doctor Pierce will personally kill me if I bring don’t bring you back soon. Come on.”

Joe helped him stand and they walked (more like Joe walked and he hobbled) back to the medical tent. They had to pause halfway to let Will catch his breath and to ensure the contents of his stomach didn’t come back up. 

“Can I ask a favor?” 

“Anything.”

“Can you bring me something to write with? I want to write to your mother.” Now was the perfect time. It had drained him to talk about it, but in a way, telling Joe everything gave Will almost as much closure as it must have for Joe. He owed it to their mother just as much, and he promised Tom. Besides, there was nothing better to do while he was recovering. 

Joe was elated. “Yes, of course. Thank you. Our mother will appreciate it.” He was dropped off at his bed and Joe practically ran out to fetch a pen and some paper. 

Doctor Pierce was gone, busy somewhere, but Doctor Cutter was around to do what he normally did. After he was done, Will thought something was missing. In fact, he only had to look closer to see that the man to his left was gone and his bed left vacant. It was perfectly made, with no traces of his impression, like he was never there at all. 

At least the soldier on the right remained, albeit looking a little pale. Will resisted the urge to strike up a conversation with him, but he didn’t want to disturb the sleeping man.

While waiting, he ate dinner and thought about what to write. Joe returned promptly with the pen and a notebook for him and said he’d come visit in the morning. 

Will wrote and rewrote the letter for almost two hours. A small gas lamp was propped on his bed so he could see when it got too dark. Specific phrases he turned over in his head, deciding whether it was the right thing to say. He couldn’t relay it in the exact way he told Joe, not only because she was his mother and it required more sensitivity, but because she didn’t experience The Great War like they did. Several crumpled up pages were chucked in the bin until he was able to settle on something that felt right. The parchment was folded neatly and hidden in his tin for safekeeping until he could give it to Joe later. 

Sleep came easy that night, but unlike the previous days, it was a restless one. He dreamt of April 6th. It was like he was experiencing it again from outside his own body, detached and helpless. He was slicing his hand on the wire. He was suffocating under rubble. He was watching Tom die. He was strangling that blond German soldier, a boy who could be no older than Tom. He was crawling over bloated dead bodies. He was running through a barrage of artillery to stop the attack… 

He thought about Lauri and the baby, and whether they were okay, and if Captain Smith’s unit reached their destination, and if all the men in the truck were still alive. He thought the most about Tom, and how he could never go back to save him, no matter how much he desired it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, this was just an excuse to stuff as many MASH references as I could in a story. No, but really, MASH did inspire the medical drama bits a lot. Also, there is one very blatant reference in the next chapter that you can guess if you know even a little about MASH.
> 
> Speaking of the next chapter. It's in the works, about 70-80% done, but still being heavily edited and revised.


	2. II: Finalé

Warm sunlight and a cool breeze caressed his face. The bed was cozy and soft. Home. It felt like home. 

Will opened his eyes.

Chemical smells wafted into his nose, and as the soreness of days past settled back into his body, it became a vivid reminder that he hadn’t been home in nearly a year. A fine sheen of perspiration coated him. Trembling under the covers, he wiped the sweat off his face into the pillowcase below and unbuttoned his stiflingly warm shirt at the top for some airflow. 

Overnight the fever had flared up. His injured hand had changed, felt different, for better or worse. If yesterday it was a raw exposed nerve, today it was dried and cracked and radiating heat, as if it baked under the sun for hours. He could no longer bend his fingers, let alone hold anything with them. Most irritatingly, it itched beneath the bandage. He almost wanted to rip it off and scratch to his heart's content but knew how much that would hurt. The pain was somewhat subdued by the morphine, but it was edging into something intolerable. 

A particularly sharp cramp in his abdomen forced him on his side. To his shock and dismay, his other bedmate, the cheery man sans a leg, had disappeared too. He wasn’t the only one. A tent that was almost full of patients when he arrived was now half empty. Those who remained were scattered around, and he was left by himself on the far side. It was too quiet.

Neither of them spoke a word to him and he didn’t say anything either, but Will couldn’t help but wonder the whereabouts of his two neighbors. Regardless, their presence comforted him—made him feel he wasn’t recovering alone. 

There were only three possibilities when a soldier left an army medical tent. Either they needed more serious attention and were taken to a proper hospital, they got better and recovered enough to leave, or they didn’t make it. Since he didn’t catch their names, Will couldn’t know— _wouldn’t ever know_ —their fates. What he convinced himself was that the both of them were okay.

At least he wasn’t a complete stranger in the Devonshire regiment. Joe had become a permanent fixture of his hospital stay, as though he considered it his duty to keep Will company.

Will heard the crunch of his boots outside before he saw him. “Morning,” Joe greeted from the entrance of the tent. 

“Joe. Hey.” Voice weak, he strained to get the words out.

Between his sideways position and difficulty speaking, Joe squinted at him in concern. He was about to say something but footsteps interrupted him. Doctor Pierce’s white coat filled Will’s view.

“Schofield, how are you feeling?” his hand automatically on Will’s burning forehead. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joe sidling into his usual seat on the right side. 

“Bad,” he confirmed bluntly, “Hand hurts.” 

“Your fever is up again. Just hold on, if it’s that bad, I’ll get you more morphine.” 

Mercifully, the doctor administered an extra dose of the painkiller prior to the rest of his daily check up. By now he’d gotten so used to these injections he barely felt the prick of the needle. Lowkey ecstasy spread through his system following the drug. He uncurled off his side and sat up.

“Your hand’s hurting, is it? I’ll take a quick look at your head and then we’ll look at your hand.” Mussing his hair, the doctor pressed gently around his scalp. Will didn’t flinch. “Some good news, your head’s healing up magnificently,” he sounded pleased and was smiling. 

The more critical matter was on his hand. No matter how many times the gash was revealed when the bandage was replaced, Will still hadn’t gotten used to the sight of it. It repulsed and nauseated him—and he had seen worse on other men. Yet, he couldn’t look away. Each dressing was left stained with a sticky residue of pus and blood on the white cotton. 

It looked different to a degree. Inflamed and sensitive as always, there was more scabbing that threatened to flake off if there was so much as a small breeze. “A real eyesore, isn't it?” 

The doctor’s smile faded to a more pensive look. “Yes. Curious. There is some improvement, but it’s not notable,” he assessed, rubbing at his stubbled chin. 

“What does that mean?” 

“I can’t say for sure.” At the uneasy expressions on Will and Joe’s faces, he quickly amended his statement, “But it could be worse. It hasn’t spread. There are a few more aggressive treatments we can explore.” 

With incredible sincerity behind his wide, blue eyes, he promised, “I swear, I’m gonna to do everything I can for you.” Will had known army medical officers before, but never had he felt as beholden to one as Doctor Pierce. Many doctors kept their distance. Perhaps they had to—just to keep functioning, but the Devons’ head surgeon was more open and warm. 

“Let me change your bandage first.” The site was cleaned and disinfected again. Under the morphine, it twinged but hurt nothing like the first time. Joe was patient enough to wait for him. Said that he had nothing else to do for the day. 

During the next couple of hours, Will was poked and prodded, inspected and tested, thoroughly. He was injected with more drugs he couldn’t identify and made to swallow several different pills and powders. A strange smelling ointment that made his hand tingle was spread over the cut. Temperature, blood pressure, heart rate, everything, was checked and double checked. 

If Joe wasn’t there with him, Will might’ve gone mad. The lieutenant became Doctor Pierce’s temporary assistant, helping hold Will steady or handing him tools and other items he asked for. An unexpected layer to Joe, that honestly shouldn’t have surprised him, was that he had as much capacity to be funny as his younger brother. Their sense of humor was similar—and now that Will thought about it, it probably came from Joe first. 

When the doctor finished, it was nearly noon. 

“That’s about all I can do for you here,” the doctor said, packing up his medical kit. “Except...” he hesitated.

“Except what?”

Doctor Pierce stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and pointedly didn’t look at him, “Except for amputation.”

“Amputation? What, do you have to?” The threat of amputation set Will’s heart racing. 

“It hasn’t gotten bad enough for us to consider it yet, but we can guarantee the infection doesn’t spread if you don’t want to take that chance,” he explained. “You’ll be under anesthesia during the surgery.” That was one consolation. About the only consolation of such an operation. 

Utterly horrified, Will shook his head, “No. No, I can’t. How can I provide for my family without a hand?”

“It’s your choice, for now.” His fears were temporarily assuaged. “We won’t unless it is absolutely necessary, I promise. It’s a last resort.” 

“Okay. Thank you.” The possibility of amputation frightened him. He hoped it didn’t come to that, ever.

Smiling sympathetically, the doctor patted him on the shoulder, “Shout if you need me.” He nodded once at Joe in acknowledgement, who was silent during the exchange, “Lieutenant Blake.”

“Doctor.”

When the doctor was out of earshot, Joe stated the obvious, “Amputation is a scary thing.”

“I don’t think I’d be able to cope up with it,” scoffed Will. Glancing at his left hand resting under the covers, he was peculiarly grateful that he could still feel it, still twitch his fingers. Having all four limbs shouldn’t be taken for granted in any war. Worst case scenario, he may not be able to keep the hand anymore. Wouldn’t be able to touch or hold with it. Wouldn’t be able to do so much more without it. Prosthetics helped appearance wise, but they were limited. 

“I’ve seen men deal with it across the whole spectrum. Some never recover from it.” Would he ever be able to recover from it? “Others get used to it immediately.” An image popped into his mind, and he glanced at the bed behind Joe to make sure it was vacant. The man who was there was probably ten times hardier than him. 

Wind billowed against the tent canvas, rocking it back and forth. The whole thing creaked around them, but its foundation was made solid enough to withstand it. 

“Oh, I almost forgot. Did you write the letter?” 

Elated that Joe was distracting him from his thoughts, he nodded, “I did. Took me a few tries. Think it turned out alright.” Will grabbed his tin and fished out the folded letter. There he poured out his heart and soul to Mrs. Blake in an effort to give her as much closure as he could. 

Just before he handed it to Joe, he stopped halfway. “Erm. Could you do me a favor and not read the letter until I’m gone?” Will nervously bit his lip. It’s not like he was embarrassed about what he wrote, but it made him oddly anxious that Joe could have something to say about it, no matter what it was. He’d rather there was some distance between them before he read it. 

Joe shrugged, “If that’s what you want. l’ll mail it for you as soon as possible. Thank you again, Will. I know it’ll help mum come to terms with Tom and everything.” Content that Joe would keep his word, he passed the parchment over to him. Paper crinkled slightly when it was tucked into Joe’s jacket pocket. 

The hard part was done. Will became aware of Joe discreetly trying to peek into the still open tobacco tin. Their eyes met.

“Is that…?” 

“Oh, yes. My family.” It was an extremely rare thing that he showed those pictures to a fellow soldier, let alone mentioned them. Not even Tom, whom he could say was his closest friend, got much out of him.

But things were different now. 

He wasn’t in the trenches, trying to put a wall between himself and the others. His vulnerabilities had already been exposed to Joe yesterday. No one better to show his family than the family of his best friend in war. 

“This is my wife, Elizabeth. Beth.” The two photos were held up for Joe to see. “These are my daughters, Irene and Margaret.” He pointed out who was who. 

A bright grin lit up Joe’s face. He eagerly leaned in to take a closer look. 

“Wow, they’re beautiful. I’m sure you miss them dearly.” Shoulders relaxing, his grin became one of fond yearning, “I miss mine too.” 

Will’s jaw dropped open. “You have children?” Somehow it never occurred to him that Joe could have a family. Maybe he only assumed because Tom was a bachelor. But Joe was older than Tom and older than himself. More than likely he had married and had children. 

Voice soft with adoration, Joe chuckled and nodded, “Yeah, got a son. My lad, Henry. He must be… oh, about nine, nearly ten now. Edith is always writing to me how much of a handful he is.” From his wallet he took out his own photo, a simple portrait of a young boy with his parents on either side. There was some resemblance between father and son, but Henry had his mother’s hair. 

A darker expression came over him. He stared at them solemnly. “I hope he never has to live through something like this again.”

Wistful, Will rubbed the edge of his shirt between thumb and forefinger absentmindedly. “We’re missing their childhoods. Do you regret it?” He hadn’t missed his girls’ first words, but he was missing them learning how to speak and how to read and many other firsts. They’ll both be in primary school by the time he comes back for good. In the end, he would have no choice, but even so he regretted having to leave them. 

“More than anything.” Suddenly impassioned by the topic of their children, Joe puffed out his chest and rather boldly proclaimed, “But this war will end soon, maybe even next year. I know it in my heart. The signs are already showing.” 

Hearing that jogged his memory. Will recalled something that he wanted to ask yesterday, “Joe. Were you at the Somme?” 

Like a popped balloon, his inquiry wholly deflated Joe. Confidence turned into rue. “Our division was there at Albert. We were moved out afterwards.” Opening and closing his mouth several times, Joe looked like he had to dare himself to ask what he already knew, “Were you?”

“Yes, I was.” Tom heard about it but didn’t really _know_. Joe would know. He was there during the initial few days—the worst days—when they walked into a massacre, like the Devons nearly walked into one two days ago. 

Whispers of command’s cluelessness floated down even to his rank. Anyone who went out into no man’s land figured that out pretty fast. “From the first battle. After Albert, we were stationed in Trônes, Delville, Thiepval, and lastly Ancre.” 

Often he thought about how fortunate he was to survive. So many of his friends succumbed to those battles—new, old, a few childhood friends from school. And for so little. 

Will had lied to Tom. He pretended he forgot to avoid talking about it. Talking dredged up the memories that haunted him everyday. Sometimes he wished he did forget. It would’ve been easy, or easier, if he could. If everything in the Great War was a circle of hell, then the Somme was one lower than them all. 

“It was a massive strategic mistake.” Joe fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. _Mistake is putting it lightly. More of a catastrophe_ , Will thought. It broke the records as the bloodiest battle in history. “They never should’ve kept it going after the failure at Albert. The losses were—were too much.” Fingertips dug into his knee in an almost vice-like grip. Will had a suspicion that he might be harboring some guilt about it, but he understood why. He didn’t ask.

A minor commotion suspended their dialogue. There was movement behind a curtain on the far opposite side of the tent. Stretcher bearers hustled beyond them moments later, carrying a figure covered by a sheet. The hair on his arms stood on end as they passed. 

Will drew a shaky breath. 

“Did you know I volunteered?” Full of scorn, he confessed. Frustrated, his good hand wiped at his sweaty forehead.

Both of Joe’s eyebrows raised in mild surprise. “You weren’t conscripted?”

“No. When Kitchener called for it, I signed up with my friends and half the other poor bastards in the town.” 

That day, that decision, threw his life into turmoil.

“The war was early in 1914. I knew nothing except that they needed the men. We all thought it was ending soon. I wanted to help end it quicker,” he spat bitterly, clenching his teeth, at the height of contempt. He felt stupid for ever thinking so foolishly. 

The truth didn’t register to him until a year later—when it still wasn’t over—just how wrong he was. The draft would have ripped him from his home eventually, he knew that, but maybe he wouldn’t have been at the Somme. Maybe he would’ve been as green and naive as Tom was. 

“Will, I’m sorry.” 

When the war would truly end, he didn’t fucking know. It went on far too long already. Britain, France, Germany, every nation must be at the end of its rope after three continuous years of warfare. Thinking about another year of this made him sick. 

Unexpected chills passed through him. He slumped forward and shuddered hard. Heart palpitating, he met with a strong vertigo. The hand prickled through the haze of morphine. Seemingly seconds from vomiting, he forced himself to breathe deep until it passed. For a minute there, he lost himself but managed to recover. 

“Will, are you okay? Do you need me to get the doctor? I can go if you want to rest?” Joe was poised to get up. 

“No,” Will stopped him with a raised hand, “No, I’m fine.”

He didn’t want Joe to leave. He didn’t want to be alone, not right now. But he couldn’t stand talking or thinking about the Somme anymore, so he stayed mum.

A lull came over their conversation. Bright sunlight that peaked through the tent’s slits transitioned into the amber rays of late afternoon. Outside, he could hear men passing the tent on their way to the trench. An orderly changed the sheets and threw out medical waste. It was the only sound in the tent besides the minute scratching of a pen.

He tried to think of something to calm down. 

Tom. He thought about Tom. 

Hoping he wasn’t overstepping his bounds, Will asked, “Joe, would you mind telling me more about Tom?” 

Nostalgia, sorrow, and fondness melded together in Joe’s face. His head leaned back as he mused, trying to think of a way to sum his baby brother, “Course not. He was enthusiastic, if I had to pick a word to describe him. Very precocious for his age. He loved exploring. Always wanted to have fun.” A smile aimed at him. “He saw the best in people.” 

Tom’s compassion. The same compassion that unfairly cost him his life. There was little room for compassion or empathy in battle. Especially not for a modern twentieth century war. 

“H-he loved helping mum in the garden,” Glassy-eyed, Joe choked up. He pinched the bridge of his nose to stem tears. “We would both help her when she needed it, but he was the one who took a real interest.”

Will already knew that one. He had skipped over their conversations while telling what happened yesterday. “He told me a little about it, on the way here. Could name ten different kinds of plants in seconds.” That conversation beside the fallen cherry trees made him look at Tom differently. 

Joe laughed. “That sounds just like him. I was never that good at it. He used to brag about it to mum every chance he got.” Will couldn’t recall Tom ever mentioning anything about plants to their unit, besides that he grew up on a farm. Perhaps he kept it to himself because he thought they would ridicule him for it. 

“Our father died when he was real young.” Somber, Joe stared at his lap. No wonder he never mentioned their father. The Blake family was so different from his own. Both of his parents were alive. Will kept in contact with them almost as often as he did Beth. “Pa was in the military. After he passed, mum had to take care of us on her own. I’m ten years older than Tom, so I helped mum out as soon as I was able to work.” Like he assumed, Joe _was_ in his early thirties. He grew up with a father, but Tom didn’t. In a way, it was probably easier for Tom not being able to remember much.

“We were very close until I moved where Edith was to get married. He resented me for it a little while but never held it against me.” Tom probably felt abandoned at the time. But he could tell just how much Tom loved and admired his older brother during his brief time at the 8th. How saving his brother became an immediate priority to him, so much that he instantly risked his life for it. Wherever Tom was, Will hoped he knew that he was speaking to his Joe right now.

Joe sighed, and got up to stretch. He hummed, then he asked the question back. “Tell me what Tom was like when he was with you.”

“I didn’t have a greatest first impression of him,” admitted Will sheepishly. They didn’t get along immediately. “I thought he was a bit of a bit of a prat that didn’t belong.” 

He wasn’t offended by Will being so frank. “Tom was never suited for battle,” Joe stated matter of factly. He wasn’t. Neither was Will. Neither were most men.

“He joined the 8th not long after the Somme. I was barely talking,” Will softened. He wasn’t sure how much more withdrawn he would’ve been without Tom cheering him up, worming his way into Will’s space. “Everyone thought it was a bit of a strange friendship, and...”

The next several hours were spent exchanging stories about Tom and their kids. It brought a smile on both their faces to reminisce, even if it was also painful.

They talked well into the evening, until the crickets chirped and the lamps were lit by orderlies. Between their conversations, he observed a few more soldiers leaving the tent. A few by stretcher, covered by a white sheet, and a few who walked out of there well and alive until it was just him and a couple more left. 

They talked until Will felt a wave of exhaustion so strong he had to cut off Joe mid sentence to tell him. It was only early in the evening, but he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. 

Hastily, he wished Joe goodnight and passed out before his head struck the pillow.

Screaming. Someone was screaming. _He_ was screaming. 

The hazy figure of Joe, ever present and asleep at his side, startled awake so quickly he went from dead asleep to alert in half a second. Wooden legs screeched as he rushed towards Will. “Will? What’s wrong!?” No answer from him, just a pained moan. Joe said something about getting the doctors. 

From what he could tell beyond his nebulous eyesight, it wasn’t morning yet because it was pitch black out, or it would be, if not for the glowing light of the lamps. He had only been asleep for a few hours. 

Everything had gone awry at once. His throat hurt from yelling. His body was so warm, he could be melting, the shirt soaked through to his sheets. But all of that paled to the vicious agony his arm was in. The entirety of his left arm was on fire, but the hand was the worst. An involuntary spasm made him kick the blanket onto the floor. 

“Shit.” He couldn’t see them yet, but he knew that voice well enough to recognize Doctor Pierce. One more person was with him, presumably Doctor Cutter. 

Fibers of the bandage caught in his flesh. He wailed when Doctor Pierce peeled it back. It hurt so bad to disturb the wound his toes curled and his spine curved up. In unison, Joe and both doctors gasped. Although stagnant for days, the injury had gotten markedly more dire within a matter of hours. 

The horrendous sight of it made Will heave, but it was the smell that made him throw up. Only a watery bile that burned his throat on the way up came out. Acidic fluid dribbled down his chin and stained his pajama shirt. 

He forced himself to look at it again. The inflamed edges of the laceration were no longer just a raw red. It was mottled with sickly yellow and white around the edges and had unevenly eaten away layers of his palm, exposing the fat and muscle underneath. A small white protrusion of what could only be bone jutted out below his ring finger. Its stench was akin to rotting flesh. No, it _was_ rotting flesh. 

A towel was used to hastily wipe down his chin and neck of bile. Joe was desperately trying to make himself useful. 

The sleeve of his shirt was pushed back to reveal his arm red and covered in small lesions. Where it wasn’t red and bruised looking, his skin was a pallid yellow-green. He looked like he had been drained of blood. 

“This…” When a doctor was speechless, it almost never meant anything good. “The infection… it spread. We have to amputate, _right now_.” 

A primal fear came over Will, “No!” he shouted instinctively and weakly struggled to get up. “I can’t. _I can’t!_ ” It could make working difficult. It could cripple his family. 

Will looked from Doctors Pierce and Cutter, who looked defeated, to Joe, who was terrified. They were all frozen in place until Pierce spoke, “No. There isn’t anything else. It’s either that or we lose him.” He pivoted in the other direction. “We’re running out of time. I’ll go get the saws and anesth—“

“Wait, look.” With a hand across the chest, Cutter held his peer back. He unbuttoned Will’s shirt and pushed it aside to expose his torso. It had the same pallid color as his arm but with few lesions. His chest rose and fell rapidly. 

Fingers pressed on Will’s side gently. That was all it took. A tortured howl tore from his lips. “His organs are failing. It may be too late.” 

Will sank into his bed, limp, the pain encumbering him so much he couldn’t move. 

“Is there _anything_ you can do for him?” implored Joe’s shaky voice. 

Hundreds of patients must have passed in these tents, but Doctor Pierce appeared on the verge of tears, devastated. He shook his head no. “We’ll do our best to keep him comfortable until…” He didn’t say it, not in front of Will. His fellow medic was more outwardly stoic, but Doctor Cutter’s kind, sad eyes spoke to everything. 

The pair of them prepared a few final things for him. They redressed his wound to not just hide its gruesomeness, but to apply some much needed pressure. They sat him up, back against the pillows, and gave him a couple large doses of morphine. Will was shivering and nauseous, but the drug numbed him just enough to mediate the pain.

“We’ll go now.”

Pierce went up to Joe and whispered something in his ear that Will couldn’t hear. Joe nodded gravely. He didn’t know exactly what was said, but he could probably guess. 

Having done their job, the two doctors left. Struggling, Will lifted his uninjured arm at the elbow. He wanted to reach for Joe's wrist but was too weak to stretch. “Please. Please don’t leave,” he begged. 

Joe caught his hand in his own and clasped it tight. He sank down onto his knees beside him. “I won’t.”

Silent tears steadily slid down Will’s cheeks, leaving wet marks on his shirt. Flickers of the dim lamp lit them half in shadow.

“Joe?” he asked.

“Yes, Will?”

He followed in Tom’s footsteps. 

“Can you write to my family for me, please? Tell them—tell them I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for them. Tell my girls I wanted nothing but the best for them.”

“Will, I promise you, I’ll help take care of them.” If Joe followed up on that promise, he knew they would be in good hands.

“Thank you. I just wish I could see their faces again... to say goodbye properly. I’m sorry you didn’t get to with Tom.” At his apology, Joe could no longer hold back his own tears. His damp forehead pressed into their laced hands. 

An almost oppressive silence filled the tent. Apart from his heavy breathing and his friend’s stifled sobbing, nobody made a sound. Their half of the tent was empty. Whomever was left were still. If they were hearing this, did they feel anything for him? Pity, maybe. Maybe they felt nothing at all. 

A beat. 

He knew the answer, but he felt compelled to ask the same question Tom asked him only two days earlier. 

“Am I dying?” 

Joe’s head raised. 

“Yes, I think so.” Word for word the exact response he gave Tom. It felt strangely ironic, in a morbid way. 

He _was_ dying wasn’t he? 

Death. Right there at his doorstep. 

He didn’t expect it in this way. Not something as anticlimactic as a small wound poisoning him from the inside, and not so soon after Tom. He thought he would die riddled with bullets or blown to pieces by a shell or suffocated by toxic gas, but he knew men fought for and lost their lives in hospital as often as the battlefield. 

He’d soon be joining all the others who didn’t get better, who didn’t make it. He wasn’t unique. He was just one of tens of millions. Another promising young man who left his loved ones behind. 

“Will?” Joe asked him now. “Can I tell you something about Tom? Promise me you won’t think less of him.”

“I wouldn’t.” There are few things that would lessen his opinion of Tom now. 

“Tom,” he swallowed heavily, “he loved you. Truly. I know because he talked about you to mum.” 

It took a moment to sink in. Will could have laughed. “I loved him too.” He didn’t know, was too oblivious to realize, until Tom had perished. He wished he had told him when he still could. He did love Tom. It wasn’t right by his wife or his girls, but he loved Tom. Loved him a little too late, but nevertheless, loved him. 

There were no consequences to admitting that now. Not to Joe, who, through their shared trauma, came to know him better than any other comrade within the span of a few days. 

The callused hand in his tightened. It quivered, unsteady. 

“I don’t know if you believe in heaven or any afterlife, but, Will, if you see Tom again, tell him I said ‘hello’, and that I love him and miss him.”

“Yes, I will.” Seeing Tom again could be the only perk to dying. 

“Can I have my photographs?” As he had thought earlier, it was a small mercy. Now that it was available to him, he took the opportunity. Clawing open his tobacco tin, Joe placed them on his lap where he could see them. 

The last he’d see of his precious family. Leaving Beth to fend for herself, leaving his children fatherless. Little could be worse. 

But he had one more selfish request. 

“Can I—do you—have a picture of Tom?”

In place of a response, Joe squeezed his hand _yes_ and used his other arm to retrieve a picture from his inner breast pocket. It was exactly the same picture as Tom’s, the one he’d seen hardly a few days earlier. Older brother Joe, young brother Tom, and their mum Mrs. Blake immortalized in film. A content little family. Now a broken one. 

Bloodshot eyes darted between all three of the pictures until his vision swam. It blurred, then dimmed until he could only see shapes and colors. He felt a hand grasping his tight but the sensation became weak. Next to him Joe was weeping, faintly. It was the last thing he heard. 

All his senses faded away until what lingered were phantom memories—happy memories he clung to with all his might. Regrets, thoughts echoed in his head. 

But he didn’t want to think anymore. He was tired. He wanted to go to sleep. 

So he closed his eyes.

Then he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forced myself to look at severe infections for this and it was the nastiest shit. Poor Will :(.
> 
> This took ages for me to edit, and I'm not sure I'll ever be truly satisfied, but I decided enough is enough and that I'm going to post it anyway.
> 
> Also, I totally subconsciously borrowed from Tolkien's WWI experiences that I only knew from watching the LotR special features. His wife was named Edith too.


End file.
